


Dream of Me

by queen_hottub



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Daedric Princes, F/M, Problems, Romance, apocrypha, not-so-slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-06 00:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12200301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_hottub/pseuds/queen_hottub
Summary: The First and Last Dragonborn fight to keep out of Hermaeus Mora's reach, playing right into the hands of his sister, Mephala.





	1. Dreams of Marble

Cressida had always dreamed of that place known as Apocrypha. When she would lie on her back in the sands of Hammerfell, and stare at the endless expanse of stars, her mind would close to the heavens and delve into the darkness of that sickly green realm. 

She was just a child when she could fully remember one such trek of the mind. A slave child with no more to look forward to than the pittance of honey and water that her mistress would give her at the end of a long day, she had laid down at her mistress’ feet and felt nothing. 

When she would open her eyes, she knew that time had passed, but there was no dreams between the darkness behind her eyelids. The stars wheeled over her head, and yet, she constantly awoke in the night. Until, finally, she was invited into that dream that was too familiar to be strange. 

Apocrypha was a beautiful place, in its own sickly way. Hermaeus Mora’s realm was as deep and varying as the slick warping lines of his physical form. Apocrypha, created by such a twisted being, should have been ugly. She knew instinctively that she should have thought of it as ugly. In her waking hours, if she’d been faced with those eldritch beasts that floated between the aisles of books and the ghostly figures that greeted her with smiles, she would’ve felt mortal fear. 

But as a child, she dwelt in that part of Hermaeus Mora’s mind which was most beautiful. The essence of Hermaeus Mora before he turned from the creation of Nirn and embraced the Daedric. And there, though she had never known his name, was the man with the golden mask.

He stood, his hands clasped behind his back, with an expectant air. He had been waiting for her, and when her feet first touched the marble expanse of the floor, she smiled. With a child’s intuition, she knew that the man meant her no harm. 

With a different sort of intuition, one that can only be ascribed to the strange magic that brought her through the dreamworlds to this accursed place, she knew that he was full to the brim with pain and regret. 

In that first dream, he inclined his head. And her visit to the unknown world was no more. 

When she arrived again, she greeted him -- though words did not leave her throat in the usual way. That is, her voice did not have that normally imperceptible rumble as vocal chords flex and sound is made. Her chest did not move with air. There was just stillness, and she realized that her words had never passed through her lips at all -- but directly from her mind. 

“Who are you?” 

He held up his finger to the mouth of his mask, tilting his head ever so slightly. She would not receive an answer that time. 

But he gave his answer in the countless times that she visited him thereafter. He was the man with the golden mask, a man trapped in a place of beauty surrounded by sickness, a man that showed kindness in his every action.

“Look at this, kiir.” He said, crouching down and holding out his palm. Cressida was silent, as a blue flame manifested there, hovering as it spread. The tiny fractures of light that crackled around the ball seemed to smelt the air, making her skin tingle

It was fire, and it was blue as the sky of Hammerfell. 

“Yol.” He said, easily. There was no expectation in his voice, only that rumble that Cressida had learned to associate with safety. 

Yet, she knew what he wanted. So she held out her own hand, and with that strange speech of mind, she repeated after him. 

Flame, bright and sparking, uncontrolled and ferociously red, leapt between her fingers -- engulfing her hand. She cried out, expecting the searing pain of the fire to brand the delicate flesh of her fingers and wrists. 

Instead, there was only indescribably hot warmth -- dry and bordering painful. No bubbling of flesh, no scarring of  what was smooth. This time, as that unmovable golden mask turned and tilted, she knew that he was smiling. 

He taught her countless words in that strange language, each manifesting in an uncontrolled twin of his own. His words, his magic, was strong and controlled and the manifestation of wrath and beauty. She’d found that hers was uncontrolled and bright, shining with a different sort of beauty. 

The dreams of her childhood were not to last. As she grew older, she saw Apocrypha less. As the events of the day grew more interesting, the entertainment of magic and words grew less so. It was a gentle progression, an unnoticeable loss of interest, until she no longer visited at all. 

It was only when she’d been gone for many months that she wondered why she no longer saw the man with the golden mask. Wondering turned to yearning, yearning to a dull sense of loss until he was gone.

*kiir - child  
*Yol - Fire


	2. Watch Me Drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cressida is attacked and called a False Dragonborn. Miraak makes a reappearance in her life.

From the chains of Helgen to the glory of accepting Alduin’s soul, Cressida was haunted with the thought that everything she’d accomplished was in preparation for something. Greater or worse, she could never decide. 

When she was quiet for long moments in the libraries of Winterhold, she knew that there was something creaking and slipping through the darkness behind her vision. It howled silently for her, it’s baying as loud in the ethereal world of dreams and as quiet in reality as a flickering candle. 

    “Now that you’ve finished...you know, your destiny...isn’t it time to move on?” Adrianne asked, the warmth of her smithy casting her face into a harsh impression of shadows and planes. Cressida raised her eyes from the axe she’d been sharpening and paused. 

    “What do you mean?” 

    “You know what my father says. He says that there’d be nothing better for you than to settle down and accept a normal life. He wants the best for you…” 

    “I know…Has he been in correspondence with my mother?” Cressida couldn’t bear the thought of her mother being exposed to Proventus’ speculation. Though the steward was far too perceptive for his own good, his speculation could only be described as alarmist. 

    “Of course.” 

    “How is she?” Cressida hadn’t written to her mother in years. There was something painful and sour that rose in her throat whenever she considered telling her mother the life she’d lived after running away all those years ago. She’d always preferred to keep her scars to herself. 

    “Well.” Adrianne replied easily, rising from her stool to stoke the fire of her smithy. The great bellows wheezed in protest as Adrianne worked the handles together and wrenched them apart. 

    “And the rest of them?” For a moment, Cressida saw the faces of her brothers and sisters. She’d been young when she’d run away, but she remembered all of them well. 

    “Faustus has just gotten married. Cantia delivered another baby boy. In other words, alive, but what about you?” 

    Cressida grimaced as Adrianne caught onto her farce. There was something at once frustrating and comforting knowing that her cousin could read her so easily. 

    “Tell Proventus to write my regards to them?”  
     
    “Why don’t you?” 

    “Paper and postage are rather expensive.” Cressida replied with a cheeky, superficial smile, as she rose from her chair and nodded to Adrianne. It was time to leave. The blacksmith huffed. 

    “Will you be staying with the Companions? Or with your lowly cousin?” 

    “Adrianne.” Cressida said, a warning with a smile. Then she shook her head. “Neither, I’m heading to Riften tonight.” 

    “Of course you are. The Dragonborn has no need for safety precautions. Why fear bandits when you can kill dragons.” Adrianne was muttering now under her breath as she placed a kiss on Cressida’s right cheek and retreated to her forge. 

    Cressida retreated to the darkness beyond Whiterun’s gates, walking down the slopes around the city with a leisureliness that comes before a long journey. She had all night to ride, all night to ponder, and the smell of baked grass and flowers was pleasant enough to keep her.

    She arrived in Riften with barely a scratch, though the same could not be said for her horse. A wolf’s bite to the leg and several scratches to the flank, she’d refused to ride and had walked her horse the rest of the way. It was fortunate that she’d only been ten miles out when the wolves had caught their scent. 

    It was already late afternoon in Riften, by the time she’d treated her horse’s wounds and checked the mare into the stables. And the smells of the thieving city were particularly pungent, after a fall of rain that left the streets shining gold. If only the thieves that dwelled below could scoop it up for themselves. 

    Of course, Cressida’s eyes did not land on the gold reflection of water but on the bone masks of the two figures near the gates. Her eyes flicked to the Riften guards...or at least, where they should have been. 

    Damn guards, they’d probably called it a day and gone to their mead. Now intensely aware that she had no back up, she straightened and nodded at the heavily clothed figures. 

    They stepped into her path. 

    And they attacked her, after calling her the False Dragonborn. Her blood boiled as she parried their attacks, her sword sinking easily into one, her destruction spells engulfing the other. When all was said and done, Cressida breathed heavily, energy crackling in arcs around her hands. They had attacked with fire, and images of her dreams flashed back to her. 

Yol. Fire. His fire. 

But the thought faded from her mind before she could truly think of it, and nothing was left but the sense that she’d missed something. 

    She was numb by the time the Riften guards had roused enough energy to arrive on the scene, and she excused herself with a few whispered words, the paper she’d rustled off of one of cultist’s bodies clutched in hand. 

    “When Lord Miraak appears all shall bear witness.” She whispered to herself, echoing the words of the assassins. Miraak. The word spoke of that ethereal howling she heard in the deepest and quietest of nights.


	3. Weight of the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn travels to Solstheim.

She’d traveled to Solstheim by herself, that reckless part of her desiring the thrill of a new adventure. She knew that the island held something indescribable, a freedom not only from her responsibilities, but from her overbearing reputation. In Solstheim, she was merely a woman.  
          
    The cool winds of the island’s harbor were the first she experienced, the mist that surrounded the land tingling against her skin. If only she’d realized the horror that she was sailing into, the trap that had been laid for her since the day her mother conceived her. 

    Her inquiries after the name Miraak lead her to the temple, and from there, to every corner of the island. The droning chant of the workers who were enslaved to the pillars rang in her ear at night when she’d lay and look at the sky -- stars often obscured by unfathomable shadows and clouds. Something heavy and terrifying lay over the land, that much she knew. 

    It was then, in the depths of Miraak’s temple, that she entered Apocrypha once more. 

    As soon as she’d opened the black book, the familiar sense of weightlessness and sickliness filled her. And suddenly, she stood before the man with the golden mask -- eyes widening. 

    “Yuvon!” She cried, in that nickname she’d given him all those years ago. So it had all been true. Every night she’d spent in the man’s company, learning the dragon’s language from him, had truly happened. Her heart beat against her chest with joy. 

    “Kiir?” He asked, the rich tones of his voice seeming to vibrate through the turbulent atmosphere of Apocrypha. Something was not right. 

The kindness of his voice was gone, replaced by disbelief. Suspicion. Hurt. 

Cressida made to reach out to him, hand outstretched -- ready to show him how her powers had grown, how her fire was no longer untamed. Her heart swelling with affection, an affection she hadn’t felt for any man in a long time. 

He did not mirror her action. The silence between them lasted for so long that Cressida slowly let her arm drop.

    “Zu’u krosis.” He said, finally -- as if a decision had been made -- before extending his own palm. A streak of electricity shot from his arm, directly at her. Cressida let out a silent cry as she crumpled to the ground, the searing cold pain of electricity running down her spine and back again. 

    “What--” 

    “You have returned at the worst of times. But...you have done well in Nirn. Alduin, mal viing? Impressive.” 

The pride in his voice made her heart shutter, perhaps he had mistakenly attacked her? The denial of his attack could only hold so much water. She tore her eyes away from him. Betrayal was something she’d grown accustomed to, and the pain of his betrayal made her want to wretch. 

“I would have killed him if I had chosen that path.” 

“Yuvon, why have you hurt me?” Cressida choked out. He stepped closer, his gloved hands moving to rest on her head. She gritted her teeth and used what strength she could to push away. 

“It is necessary, Dragonborn. I must return to Solstheim...I will not be stopped. Soon, my temple will be finished. Then…” He let the word hang in the air before turning away. 

“You must await my return with the rest of Tamriel, mal viing.” 

And the eldritch beings at his sides moved forward at a silent command, and attacked. Cressida screamed, her final keen full of disbelief and betrayal. 

    When she returned to the waking world, her face no longer glowed with life. It was pallid with confusion. Her Yuvon was Miraak, the man who was rumored to be controlling the island. The first Dragonborn. The man who was first meant to fulfill what had become her destiny. 

    Hate bred with the deep affection of a child’s love, and she slammed her fists on the ground. 

*Yuvon - n. gold; fineness, richness; v. to make or become golden; to enrich  
*Zu’u krosis - I’m sorry  
*mal viing - little wing  
    ** connotations of viing: word of power, associated with strength, the extent of one’s power.


	4. Return to Apocrypha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And so the world would go on with none."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just popping in with a quick thank you to all those who have left kudos on this work. :)

    She traveled Solstheim, intent on stopping Miraak from returning. Something strange had happened in the depths of his temple, when she’d realized that the man she’d seen in her dreams was only a mirror of the reality. 

    The golden mask soon became something she hated with all her being. It represented the enslavement of those who worked on the pillars, and the shame of failure. It represented the man who could’ve saved her from the fate of a Dragonborn. 

    In the late of night, she would seeth and imagine the life she could have lead if Miraak had done his duty. If he had shown an ounce of self-giving, if he had put the fate of the world before his own pursuit of power. 

    Though she had no way of determining how her life might be different, her imagination always took her to the domestic happiness of Proventus and Adrianne in Whiterun. When the stars seemed yellow in the sky, jealousy would come out to play. Why was it that her sister already had a child of her own...and she was condemned to a failed engagement and what affection she could garner from strangers? 

    Vilkas’s ice blue eyes flashed in the night, and when she closed her eyes, she remembered his disbelief after she’d broken off their engagement. She couldn’t bring herself to marry, not when she knew her duty to the world was not yet finished. There was something more…

    And to think that that something was this, stopping Miraak from returning from Nirn, made her sick to the stomach. 

    The dragons of Solstheim served as a distraction. She worked, alongside the spellsword, Teldryn Sero, until they fell. 

    That was when Miraak appeared to her, gold in appearance. A wry smile twisted her lips as she looked upon him, his words falling upon deaf ears. And as the soul rose and wrapped about him, she spoke, 

    “You are truly gold now, Yuvon.”   
      
    He chuckled.

    “This is for the best, mal viing. You would not understand.” 

    “How dare you look down at me. At least I was able to defeat Alduin.” 

    “I assure you --” Now, the dawning of cold fury was evident in the hollowest notes of his voice, “Had I been on the mountain top with you, your power would have paled in comparison with mine. Alduin would have lain dead in a heartbeat.” 

    She gritted her teeth. That first hostile exchange between them was only the seed germinating, and with every dragon killed, every stolen soul, every heated exchange, it grew until it made to devour Cressida. 

    “You don’t have to do this.” Cressida hissed. 

    “You’re right, mal viing,” the nickname had earned a poisonous aftertaste, no longer the suggestion of the great power she would have but what little power she possessed, “I choose to. Though you have fulfilled a destiny given to you, I have chosen my own path. Who is the greater?” 

    “Your path is one of destruction, Miraak.” 

    “So be it.” He replied, disappearing. 

    She met him next at the Summit of Apocrypha. 

    He spoke to her in that elder dragon tongue, the syllables wrong, the meaning of his words chilling. 

    “The world could never sustain two.”   
      
    And so the world would go on with none.


	5. Awakening

She passed from dreams into a waking state in which she could only see the last moments of their battle. They had driven each other to the brink of destruction, with full knowledge that the next blow would completely unravel the other. She clutched her sword closer, murmuring words of power in preparation for that last assault. And when it had come, the searing pain of his sword in her chest was punctuated by the knowledge that her own sword had pierced the chink of his armor above his heart. It was death for them both. 

    And yet, there was a great oily darkness, a blot in her memory. And she awoke in that marble plain of Apocrypha that she remembered from her childhood. Though it could not be called any lighter than the other areas, it lacked the distinct and sickly green overcast skies. No, here there merely the blue-grey clouds of a normal day -- the tantalizing promise of a sun beyond that blanket of mist enough to make Cressida believe she was back in Nirn. 

    She put that desire out of her brain as the last of her dreams left her. There was a point when a mortal, so disoriented by the actions of the gods, must forget the supernatural and focus only on the next step. She rose from the floor and looked around. 

    Pillars, Imperial in style, rose up around her in a circle. And through each set of pillars, there was the intricate design of Apocrypha’s connecting platforms. In the misty distance, she could faintly make out the rising steps and floating papers of the rest of Hermaeus’ realm. But for now, she was in the eerily calm and near sunny platform of rest. 

    Then, slowly, out of the mist there came a lone figure. In a single moment, when she forgot every misdeed and cruel world that they’d exchanged, a smile rose to her lips. She even went so far as to open her mouth, in preparation to call him. 

    She froze, her eyes locking on his mask. Then she took a step back, and prepared for whatever he was coming for. Surely, in this realm he could not kill her. They had already tried in the realm of Nirn...and if the Daedric Prince had saved them from the brink of death as he had done for Miraak all those years ago, he would not let them die in his own realm. 

    That did not mean that she could not feel pain. The electricity he had greeted her with all those months ago was not easily forgotten.

    “Dragonborn.” He was courteous when he addressed her, tucking his hands behind his back and tilting his head as soon as he’d crossed into her pavilion. 

    “Miraak.” She replied in kind. 

    “We’ve met often here, in this pocket of Hermaeus Mora’s realm,” He paused, his tone of voice unreadable, “I have fond memories of this place.” 

    “Why are we here?” 

    “The final blow, the moment we were meant to leave this world and join Akatosh in his halls...Hermaeus Mora could not permit us to leave him without a champion.” 

    “So that is what you are. His champion.”

    “You doubt this?” 

    “How could you possibly serve him, trapped in this realm as you are? It has been a decade since I saw you last in my dreams...and you’ve waited for much longer than that.”

He was silent, sensing that she had more to say. She inclined her head, glad that the perception he’d showed in her dreams had not faded in interim. 

“Miraak…” She stepped forward, pushing aside the grudge that had been sitting in her chest like a stone wall while she was in Solstheim. Now that the prospect of being trapped for as long as he’d been trapped was before her, desperation replaced all, “Please tell me…”

“You have destroyed a plot to escape that I had worked on for a millenia. You think that I am so driven as to produce another such plot in the ten hours that you’ve lain here, unconscious?” 

“I…” 

“Did not expect this? Neither did I.”

“Miraak.” 

“Yes?”

“Yuvon.” She readjusted her stance, her eyes imploring as she looked into the unmoving expression of his mask. This time, he did not reply verbally. But she knew she’d succeeded when the tension in his shoulders had lessened, and the chin of his mask tucked closer to his collarbone. He was looking directly at her -- not over or beyond her.

“Was this Hermaeus Mora’s plan all along? To have two dragonborn trapped in his realms? I doubt that.” She moved away from him, taking to pacing. There was something ethereal about the ease between them -- they who had been tearing each other apart in the realm of reality less than a day before. 

“Clever, mal viing.” 

The bitter undertone of her nickname was gone. She looked at him, a question evident in her eyes. She was answered: he was a man who’s plan for escape had failed, despite the stakes he’d invested in the game. 

But he was not a man that had given up. 

The hate she’d felt for him over these long months faded as she looked on him, and she saw a comrade. A fellow prisoner. And she could not hate a man who wished to escape from Hermaeus Mora’s realm when she had felt trapped breathing for mere moments in its sunniest plane. 

They did not speak again that day, if the days in Apocrypha could be measured at all. He ushered her away from that “bright” plain and showed her to a room of her own, equipped with something that looked similar to a bed, though it was merely few stacks of books and papers. 

Then he left her. There was no spoken agreement to meet again, no instructions, no assurance given. They were two worlds that had collided on select occasions...and she realized that the man she’d come to know in childhood was -- as she’d felt when he’d first betrayed her -- only a facet of the real man. 

They were together in this prison. That was all that mattered.


End file.
